Books: On Our Selection
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Steele Rudd (Arthur Hoey Davis) >> On Our Selection
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Her cry was answered. It was Joe, who had been over at Maloney's making
his fortune. He came to the rescue. He dropped out of the chimney and
shook himself. Sal stared at him. He was calm and covered from head to
foot with soot and dirt. He looked round and said, "Thought yuz could
keep me out, did'n'y'?" Sal could only look at him. "I saw yuz all run
in," he was saying, when Sal thought of Mother, and sprang to her. Sal
shook her, and slapped her, and threw water on her till she sat up and
stared about. Then Joe stared.
Dad came in for dinner--which, of course, was n't ready. Mother began to
cry, and asked him what he meant by keeping a madman on the place, and
told him she KNEW he wanted to have them all murdered. Dad did n't
understand. Sal explained. Then he went out and told the man to "Clear!"
The man simply said, "No."
"Go on, now!" Dad said, pointing to the rails. The man smiled at the
wood-heap as he worked. Dad waited. "Ain't y' going?" he repeated.
"Leave me alone when I'm chopping wood for the missus," the man answered;
then smiled and muttered to himself. Dad left him alone and went inside
wondering.
Next day Mother and Dad were talking at the barn. Mother, bare-headed,
was holding some eggs in her apron. Dad was leaning on a hoe.
"I am AFRAID of him," Mother said; "it's not right you should keep him
about the place. No one's safe with such a man. Some day he'll take it
in his head to kill us all, and then--"
"Tut, tut, woman; poor old Jack! he's harmless as a baby."
"All right," (sullenly); "you'll see!"
Dad laughed and went away with the hoe on his shoulder to cut burr.
Middle of summer. Dad and Dave in the paddock mowing lucerne. Jack
sinking post-holes for a milking-yard close to the house. Joe at
intervals stealing behind him to prick him with straws through a rent in
the rear of his patched moleskins. Little Bill--in readiness to
run--standing off, enjoying the sport.
Inside the house sat Mother and Sal, sewing and talking of Maloney's
new baby.
"Dear me," said Mother; "it's the tiniest mite of a thing I ever saw;
why, bless me, anyone of y' at its age would have made three of--"
"MIND, Mother!" Sal shrieked, jumping up on the sofa. Mother screamed and
mounted the table. Both gasped for breath, and leaning cautiously over
peeped down at a big black snake which had glided in at the front door.
Then, pale and scared-looking, they stared across at each other.
The snake crawled over to the safe and drank up some milk which had been
spilt on the floor. Mother saw its full length and groaned. The snake
wriggled to the leg of the table.
"Look out!" cried Sal, gathering up her skirts and dancing about on
the sofa.
Mother squealed hysterically.
Joe appeared. He laughed.
"You wretch!" Mother yelled. "Run!--RUN, and fetch your father!"
Joe went and brought Jack.
"Oh-h, my God!"--Mother moaned, as Jack stood at the door, staring
strangely at her. "Kill it!--why don't he kill it?"
Jack did n't move, but talked to himself. Mother shuddered.
The reptile crawled to the bedroom door. Then for the first time the
man's eyes rested upon it. It glided into the bedroom, and Mother and Sal
ran off for Dad.
Jack fixed his eyes on the snake and continued muttering to himself.
Several times it made an attempt to mount the dressing-table. Finally it
succeeded. Suddenly Jack's demeanour changed. He threw off his ragged
hat and talked wildly. A fearful expression filled his ugly features.
His voice altered.
"You're the Devil!" he said; "THE DEVIL! THE DEVIL! The missus brought
you--ah-h-h!"
The snake's head passed behind the looking-glass. Jack drew nearer,
clenching his fists and gesticulating. As he did he came full before the
looking-glass and saw, perhaps for the first time in his life, his own
image. An unearthly howl came from him. "ME FATHER!" he shouted, and
bolted from the house.
Dad came in with the long-handled shovel, swung it about the room, and
smashed pieces off the cradle, and tore the bed-curtains down, and made a
great noise altogether. Finally, he killed the snake and put it on the
fire; and Joe and the cat watched it wriggle on the hot coals.
Meanwhile, Jack, bare-headed, rushed across the yard. He ran over little
Bill, and tumbled through the wire-fence on to the broad of his back.
He roared like a wild beast, clutched at space, spat, and kicked his heels
in the air.
"Let me up!---AH-H-H!--let go me throat!" he hissed.
The dog ran over and barked at him. He found his feet again, and, making
off, ran through the wheat, glancing back over his shoulder as he tore
along. He crossed into the grass paddock, and running to a big tree
dodged round and round it. Then from tree to tree he went, and that
evening at sundown, when Joe was bringing the cows home, Jack was still
flying from "his father".
After supper.
"I wonder now what the old fool saw in that snake to send him off his head
like that?" Dad said, gazing wonderingly into the fire. "He sees plenty
of them, goodness knows."
"That was n't it. It was n't the snake at all," Mother said; "there was
madness in the man's eyes all the while. I saw it the moment he came to
the door." She appealed to Sal.
"Nonsense!" said Dad; "NONSENSE!" and he tried to laugh.
"Oh, of course it's NONSENSE," Mother went on; "everything I say is
nonsense. It won't be nonsense when you come home some day and find us
all on the floor with our throats cut."
"Pshaw!" Dad answered; "what's the use of talking like that?" Then to
Dave: "Go out and see if he's in the barn!"
Dave fidgetted. He did n't like the idea. Joe giggled.
"Surely you're not FRIGHTENED?" Dad shouted.
Dave coloured up.
"No--don't think so," he said; and, after a pause, "YOU go and see."
It was Dad's turn to feel uneasy. He pretended to straighten the fire,
and coughed several times. "Perhaps it's just as well," he said, "to let
him be to-night."
Of course, Dad was n't afraid; he SAID he was n't, but he drove the pegs
in the doors and windows before going to bed that night.
Next morning, Dad said to Dave and Joe, "Come 'long, and we'll see where
he's got to."
In a gully at the back of the grass-paddock they found him. He was
ploughing--sitting astride the highest limb of a fallen tree, and, in a
hoarse voice and strange, calling out--"Gee, Captain!--come here,
Tidy!--WA-AY!"
"Blowed if I know," Dad muttered, coming to a standstill. "Wonder if he
is clean mad?"
Dave was speechless, and Joe began to tremble.
They listened. And as the man's voice rang out in the quiet gully and the
echoes rumbled round the ridge and the affrighted birds flew up, the place
felt eerie somehow.
"It's no use bein' afraid of him," Dad went on. "We must go and bounce
him, that's all." But there was a tremor in Dad's voice which Dave
did n't like.
"See if he knows us, anyway."--and Dad shouted, "HEY-Y!"
Jack looked up and immediately scrambled from the limb. That was enough
for Dave. He turned and made tracks. So did Dad and Joe. They ran.
No one could have run harder. Terror overcame Joe. He squealed and
grabbed hold of Dad's shirt, which was ballooning in the wind.
"Let go!" Dad gasped. "DAMN Y', let me GO! "--trying to shake him off.
But Joe had great faith in his parent, and clung to him closely.
When they had covered a hundred yards or so, Dave glanced back, and seeing
that Jack was n't pursuing them, stopped and chuckled at the others.
"Eh?" Dad said, completely winded--"Eh?" Then to Dave, when he got
some breath:
"Well, you ARE an ass of a fellow. (PUFF!). What th' DEVIL did y' RUN f'?"
"Wot did I run f'? What did YOU run f'?"
"Bah!" and Dad boldly led the way back.
"Now look here (turning fiercely upon Joe), don't you come catching hold
of me again, or if y' DO I'll knock y'r d--d head off!...Clear home
altogether, and get under the bed if y're as frightened as THAT."
Joe slunk behind.
But when Dad DID approach Jack, which was n't until he had talked a great
deal to him across a big log, the latter did n't show any desire to take
life, but allowed himself to be escorted home and locked in the barn
quietly enough.
Dad kept Jack confined in the barn several days, and if anyone approached
the door or the cracks he would ask:
"Is me father there yet?"
"Your father's dead and buried long ago, man," Dad used to tell him.
"Yes," he would say, "but he's alive again. The missus keeps him in
there"--indicating the house.
And sometimes when Dad was not about Joe would put his mouth to a crack
and say:
"Here's y'r FATHER, Jack!" Then, like a caged beast, the man would howl
and tramp up and down, his eyes starting out of his head, while Joe would
bolt inside and tell Mother that "Jack's getting out,", and nearly send
her to her grave.
But one day Jack DID get out, and, while Mother and Sal were ironing came
to the door with the axe on his shoulder.
They dropped the irons and shrank into a corner and cowered piteously--too
scared even to cry out.
He took no notice of them, but, moving stealthily on tip-toes, approached
the bedroom door and peeped in. He paused just a moment to grip the axe
with both hands. Then with a howl and a bound he entered the room and
shattered the looking-glass into fragments.
He bent down and looked closely at the pieces.
"He's dead now," he said calmly, and walked out. Then he went to work at
the post-holes again, just as though nothing had happened.
Fifteen years have passed since then, and the man is still at Shingle Hut.
He was the best horse Dad ever had. He slaved from daylight till dark;
keeps no Sunday; knows no companion; lives chiefly on meat and machine
oil; domiciles in the barn; and has never asked for a rise in his wages.
His name we never knew. We call him "Jack." The neighbours called him
"CRANKY Jack."
Chapter VIII.
A Kangaroo-Hunt from Shingle Hut.
We always looked forward to Sunday. It was our day of sport. Once, I
remember, we thought it would never come. We longed restlessly for it,
and the more we longed the more it seemed to linger.
A meeting of selectors had been held; war declared against the marsupial;
and a hunt on a grand scale arranged for this particular Sabbath. Of
course those in the neighbourhood hunted the kangaroo every Sunday, but
"on their own," and always on foot, which had its fatigues. This was to
be a raid EN MASSE and on horseback. The whole country-side was to
assemble at Shingle Hut and proceed thence. It assembled; and what a
collection! Such a crowd! such gear! such a tame lot of horses! and such
a motley swarm of lean, lank, lame kangaroo-dogs!
We were not ready. The crowd sat on their horses and waited at the
slip-rails. Dogs trooped into the yard by the dozen. One pounced on a
fowl; another lamed the pig; a trio put the cat up a peach-tree; one with
a thirst mounted the water-cask and looked down it, while the bulk of the
brutes trotted inside and disputed with Mother who should open the safe.
Dad loosed our three, and pleased they were to feel themselves free. They
had been chained up all the week, with scarcely anything to eat. Dad
did n't believe in too much feeding. He had had wide experience in dogs
and coursing "at home" on his grandfather's large estates, and always
found them fleetest when empty. OURS ought to have been fleet as
locomotives.
Dave, showing a neat seat, rode out of the yard on Bess, fresh and fat
and fit to run for a kingdom. They awaited Dad. He was standing beside
HIS mount--Farmer, the plough-horse, who was arrayed in winkers with
green-hide reins, and an old saddle with only one flap. He was holding an
earnest argument with Joe...Still the crowd waited. Still Dad and Joe
argued the point...There was a murmur and a movement and much merriment.
Dad was coming; so was Joe--perched behind him, "double bank," rapidly
wiping the tears from his eyes with his knuckles.
Hooray! They were off. Paddy Maloney and Dave took the lead, heading for
kangaroo country along the foot of Dead Man's Mountain and through Smith's
paddock, where there was a low wire fence to negotiate. Paddy spread his
coat over it and jumped his mare across. He was a horseman, was Pat.
The others twisted a stick in the wires, and proceeded carefully to lead
their horses over. When it came to Farmer's turn he hesitated. Dad
coaxed him. Slowly he put one leg across, as if feeling his way, and
paused again. Joe was on his back behind the saddle. Dad tugged hard at
the winkers. Farmer was inclined to withdraw his leg. Dad was determined
not to let him. Farmer's heel got caught against the wire, and he began
to pull back and grunt--so did Dad. Both pulled hard. Anderson and old
Brown ran to Dad's assistance. The trio planted their heels in the ground
and leaned back.
Joe became afraid. He clutched at the saddle and cried, "Let me off!"
"Stick to him!" said Paddy Maloney, hopping over the fence, "Stick to him!"
He kicked Farmer what he afterwards called "a sollicker on the tail."
Again he kicked him. Still Farmer strained and hung back. Once more he
let him have it. Then--off flew the winkers, and over went Dad and
Anderson and old Brown, and down rolled Joe and Farmer on the other side
of the fence. The others leant against their horses and laughed the laugh
of their lives. "Worse 'n a lot of d--d jackasses," Dad was heard to say.
They caught Farmer and led him to the fence again. He jumped it, and rose
feet higher than he had any need to, and had not old Brown dodged him just
when he did he would be a dead man now.
A little further on the huntsmen sighted a mob of kangaroos. Joy and
excitement. A mob? It was a swarm! Away they hopped. Off scrambled the
dogs, and off flew Paddy Maloney and Dave--the rest followed anyhow, and
at varying speeds.
That all those dogs should have selected and followed the same kangaroo
was sad and humiliating. And such a waif of a thing, too! Still, they
stuck to it. For more than a mile, down a slope, the weedy marsupial
outpaced them, but when it came to the hill the daylight between rapidly
began to lessen. A few seconds more and all would have been over, but a
straggling, stupid old ewe, belonging to an unneighbourly squatter, darted
up from the shade of a tree right in the way of Maloney's Brindle, who was
leading. Brindle always preferred mutton to marsupial, so he let the
latter slide and secured the ewe. The death-scene was most imposing.
The ground around was strewn with small tufts of white wool. There was a
complete circle of eager, wriggling dogs--all jammed together, heads down,
and tails elevated. Not a scrap of the ewe was visible. Paddy Maloney
jumped down and proceeded to batter the brutes vigorously with a waddy.
As the others arrived, they joined him. The dogs were hungry, and fought
for every inch of the sheep. Those not laid out were pulled away, and!
when old Brown had dragged the last one off by the hind legs, all that was
left of that ewe was four feet and some skin.
Dad shook his head and looked grave--so did Anderson. After a short rest
they decided to divide into parties and work the ridges. A start was made.
Dad's contingent--consisting of himself and Joe, Paddy Maloney, Anderson,
old Brown, and several others--started a mob. This time the dogs separated
and scampered off in all directions. In quick time Brown's black slut
bailed up an "old man" full of fight. Nothing was more desirable. He was
a monster, a king kangaroo; and as he raised himself to his full height on
his toes and tail he looked formidable--a grand and majestic demon of the
bush. The slut made no attempt to tackle him; she stood off with her
tongue out. Several small dogs belonging to Anderson barked energetically
at him, even venturing occasionally to run behind and bite his tail. But,
further than grabbing them in his arms and embracing them, he took no
notice. There he towered, his head back and chest well out, awaiting the
horsemen. They came, shouting and hooraying. He faced them defiantly.
Anderson, aglow with excitement, dismounted and aimed a lump of rock at
his head, which laid out one of the little dogs. They pelted him with
sticks and stones till their arms were tired, but they might just as well
have pelted a dead cow. Paddy Maloney took out his stirrup. "Look out!"
he cried. They looked out. Then, galloping up, he swung the iron at the
marsupial, and nearly knocked his horse's eye out.
Dad was disgusted. He and Joe approached the enemy on Farmer. Dad carried
a short stick. The "old man" looked him straight in the face. Dad poked
the stick at him. He promptly grabbed hold of it, and a piece of Dad's
hand as well. Farmer had not been in many battles--no Defence Force man
ever owned him. He threw up his head and snorted, and commenced a retreat.
The kangaroo followed him up and seized Dad by the shirt. Joe evinced
signs of timidity. He lost faith in Dad, and, half jumping, half falling,
he landed on the ground, and set out speedily for a tree. Dad lost the
stick, and in attempting to brain the brute with his fist he overbalanced
and fell out of the saddle. He struggled to his feet, and clutched his
antagonist affectionately by both paws--standing well away. Backwards and
forwards and round and round they moved. "Use your knife!" Anderson
called out, getting further away himself. But Dad dared not relax his
grip. Paddy Maloney ran behind the brute several times to lay him out
with a waddy, but each time he turned and fled before striking the blow.
Dad thought to force matters, and began kicking his assailant vigorously
in the stomach. Such dull, heavy thuds! The kangaroo retaliated, putting
Dad on the defensive. Dad displayed remarkable suppleness about the hips.
At last the brute fixed his deadly toe in Dad's belt.
It was an anxious moment, but the belt broke, and Dad breathed freely
again. He was acting entirely on the defensive, but an awful consciousness
of impending misfortune assailed him. His belt was gone, and--his trousers
began to slip--slip--slip! He called wildly to the others for God's sake
to do something. They helped with advice. He yelled "Curs!" and
"Cowards!" back at them. Still, as he danced around with his strange and
ungainly partner, his trousers kept slipping--slipping. For the fiftieth
time and more he glanced eagerly over his shoulder for some haven of
safety. None was near. And then--oh, horror!--down THEY slid calmly and
noiselessly. Poor Dad! He was at a disadvantage; his leg work was
hampered. He was hobbled. Could he only get free of them altogether!
But he could n't--his feet were large. He took a lesson from the foe and
jumped--jumped this way and that way, and round about, while large drops
of perspiration rolled off him. The small dogs displayed renewed and
ridiculous ferocity, often mistaking Dad for the marsupial. At last Dad
became exhausted--there was no spring left in him. Once he nearly went
down. Twice he tripped. He staggered again--down he was going--down--down,
down and down he fell! But at the same moment, and, as though they had
dropped from the clouds, Brindle and five or six other dogs pounced on
the "old man." The rest may be imagined.
Dad lay on the ground to recover his wind, and when he mounted Farmer
again and silently turned for home, Paddy Maloney was triumphantly seated
on the carcase of the fallen enemy, exultingly explaining how he missed
the brute's head with the stirrup-iron, and claiming the tail.
Chapter IX.
Dave's Snakebite.
One hot day, as we were finishing dinner, a sheriff's bailiff rode up to
the door. Norah saw him first. She was dressed up ready to go over to
Mrs. Anderson's to tea. Sometimes young Harrison had tea at Anderson's--
Thursdays, usually. This was Thursday; and Norah was starting early,
because it was "a good step of a way".
She reported the visitor. Dad left the table, munching some bread, and
went out to him. Mother looked out of the door; Sal went to the window;
Little Bill and Tom peeped through a crack; Dave remained at his dinner;
and Joe knavishly seized the opportunity of exploring the table for
leavings, finally seating himself in Dad's place, and commencing where Dad
had left off.
"Jury summons," said the meek bailiff, extracting a paper from his
breast-pocket, and reading, "Murtagh Joseph Rudd, selector,
Shingle Hut...Correct?"
Dad nodded assent.
"Got any water?"
There was n't a drop in the cask, so Dad came in and asked Mother if there
was any tea left. She pulled a long, solemn, Sunday-school face, and
looked at Joe, who was holding the teapot upside-down, shaking the
tea-leaves into his cup.
"Tea, Dad?" he chuckled--"by golly!"
Dad did n't think it worth while going out to the bailiff again.
He sent Joe.
"Not any at all?"
"Nothink," said Joe.
"H'm! Nulla bona, eh?" And the Law smiled at its own joke and went off
thirsty.
Thus it was that Dad came to be away one day when his great presence of
mind and ability as a bush doctor was most required at Shingle Hut.
Dave took Dad's place at the plough. One of the horses--a colt that Dad
bought with the money he got for helping with Anderson's crop--had only
just been broken. He was bad at starting. When touched with the rein he
would stand and wait until the old furrow-horse put in a few steps; then
plunge to get ahead of him, and if a chain or a swingle-tree or something
else did n't break, and Dave kept the plough in, he ripped and tore along
in style, bearing in and bearing out, and knocking the old horse about
till that much-enduring animal became as cranky as himself, and the pace
terrible. Down would go the plough-handles, and, with one tremendous pull
on the reins, Dave would haul them back on to their rumps. Then he would
rush up and kick the colt on the root of the tail, and if that did n't
make him put his leg over the chains and kick till he ran a hook into his
heel and lamed himself, or broke something, it caused him to rear up and
fall back on the plough and snort and strain and struggle till there was
not a stitch left on him but the winkers.
Now, if Dave was noted for one thing more than another it was for his
silence. He scarcely ever took the trouble to speak. He hated to be
asked a question, and mostly answered by nodding his head. Yet, though he
never seemed to practise, he could, when his blood was fairly up, swear
with distinction and effect. On this occasion he swore through the whole
afternoon without repeating himself.
Towards evening Joe took the reins and began to drive. He had n't gone
once around when, just as the horses approached a big dead tree that had
been left standing in the cultivation, he planted his left foot heavily
upon a Bathurst-burr that had been cut and left lying. It clung to him.
He hopped along on one leg, trying to kick it off; still it clung to him.
He fell down. The horses and the tree got mixed up, and everything was
confusion.
Dave abused Joe remorselessly. "Go on!" he howled, waving in the air a
fistful of grass and weeds which he had pulled from the nose of the
plough; "clear out of this altogether!--you're only a damn nuisance."
Joe's eyes rested on the fistful of grass. They lit up suddenly.
"L-l-look out, Dave," he stuttered; "y'-y' got a s-s-snake."
Dave dropped the grass promptly. A deaf-adder crawled out of it. Joe
killed it. Dave looked closely at his hand, which was all scratches and
scars. He looked at it again; then he sat on the beam of the plough,
pale and miserable-looking.
"D-d-did it bite y', Dave?" No answer.
Joe saw a chance to distinguish himself, and took it. He ran home, glad
to be the bearer of the news, and told Mother that "Dave's got bit by a
adder--a sudden-death adder--right on top o' the finger."
How Mother screamed! "My God! whatever shall we do? Run quick," she
said, "and bring Mr. Maloney. Dear! oh dear! oh dear!"
Joe had not calculated on this injunction. He dropped his head and said
sullenly: "Wot, walk all the way over there?"
Before he could say another word a tin-dish left a dinge on the back of
his skull that will accompany him to his grave if he lives to be a
thousand.
"You wretch, you! Why don't you run when I tell you?"
Joe sprang in the air like a shot wallaby.
"I'll not go AT ALL now--y' see!" he answered, starting to cry. Then Sal
put on her hat and ran for Maloney.
Meanwhile Dave took the horses out, walked inside, and threw himself on
the sofa without uttering a word. He felt ill.
Mother was in a paroxysm of fright. She threw her arms about frantically
and cried for someone to come. At last she sat down and tried to think
what she could do. She thought of the very thing, and ran for the
carving-knife, which she handed to Dave with shut eyes. He motioned her
with a disdainful movement of the elbow to take it away.
Would Maloney never come! He was coming, hat in hand, and running for
dear life across the potato-paddock. Behind him was his man. Behind his
man--Sal, out of breath. Behind her, Mrs. Maloney and the children.
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